


The Clockwork Tyrant

by lullabyemyuu



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Bad Future, F/F, F/M, Future, Humanstuck, Like 1984 bad future, M/M, Multi, So yeah basically everyone, could be character death but im not sure so I don't feel like putting up there, cyborg, some of the pairings are tentative so there may be later additions to the list
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabyemyuu/pseuds/lullabyemyuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dave live in a dystopian future ruled by Betty Crocker. Shenanigans ensue and also they fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which John Becomies Roomies With a Cyborg

**Author's Note:**

> So this started off as a JohnDave fic I honestly don't know what happened.  
> I've been wanting to right this for a long time now, and I only have the vaguest outline of where I plan to take this but I promise it'll be awesome.  
> The main pairing will be JohnDave but the rest will have their time in the spotlight too.  
> About the lack of formatting, long story short, the formatting and I fought a long, bloody battle and, after many casualties on both sides, I lost. I'm sorry. There probably won't be very many pesterlogs in this fic anyway.  
> I may get around to going back and fixing it up when I get the time.

It's raining again, a soft pitter patter on your windowsill that quickly switches to a deluge before resuming its gentle tattoo. It continues the alternating pattern, tearing your concentration away from your piano to stare listlessly out the window. The rain machines must be broken again and you sigh, running your hands through your hair. Your apartment was not meant to withstand this sort of downpour and wet patches are already starting to form on the ceiling.

You should really get up and get out some bowls underneath them before it starts to drip, but you were finally starting to get the hang of this new melody you're working on. Besides, the effort it would take to remove yourself from the piano stool seems colossal right now. Today, you decide, is not an active today. Today is curl up with a good movie today. Your box set of Nick Cage films is collecting dust and you think it's about time to bust out Con Air again. Besides, it's nearing the 100th anniversary of Liv Tyler's death and you could have a memorial of sorts. Yeah, you decide, stretching, a Liv Tyler memorial is definitely a thing you could do.

A productivity drone zooms by your window, startling you into banging down onto the keyboard with a discordant cacophony of notes. It hovers there for a moment as you hurriedly reposition your fingers over the keys and shakily begin playing once more. You try to avoid looking right at it. The glistening metal carapace is visible out of the corner of your eye for a minute longer before it floats away, a blur of red against a backdrop of grey rain.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh and allow yourself to stop playing. Even on your days off, huh? You hope to God it wouldn't report you. You can't afford another fine. "Fuck . . ."

You force yourself to play another few songs in case it comes back and sees you wasting time staring at the wall before deciding it was time to do something else. Government-mandated Free Time wasn't for awhile, so your Liv Tyler memorial was going to have to wait.

With a sigh, you rise unsteadily and wander aimlessly into your room in search of something to do. Days off. What a joke. Time is money, money is power, power is what the Empress craves so time wasting is absolutely taboo. What even constitutes as time wasting is unclear, but you had been fined enough times on 'charges of sloth-like behavior' to know to there was no such thing as being too careful. 

The eyes of the Empress glare at you from the poster taped up above your head and you just barely resist the urge to stick your tongue out at it impudently. But no small act of treason ever goes unnoticed and unpunished by the Batterwitch, so you refrain.

You slump down in front of your desktop, pondering what a sad existence you now led compared to the arcadian past your movies portrayed. The slim machine springs to life automatically, no need to enter a password or keycode. Privacy is condemned by the Empress. A lot of things are condemned by the Empress.

The Pesterchum app is bouncing at the corner of your screen and you click it warily. 

TG: yo egbert

You sigh in relief and a slow smile spreads over your face. Dave. You could use a good conversation with him.

EB: hey dave!!!  
TG: woah someones a little happy to see me  
TG: youre like an overly affectionate dog  
TG: yeah yeah master is home from work now  
TG: don't slobber on the shoes bitch  
TG: these kickers are new  
EB: heheheh.  
EB: :B  
TG: dude youre being weird  
TG: you can't prank me from all the way across the city so what is it  
TG: did you finally get ahold of some nick cages remains  
TG: are you currently sitting in front of the computer sucking on one of his talentless mummified fingers like its a religious relic you swiped from a mystical temple  
EB: ewww dave! gross!  
TG: that is totally something you would do  
TG: admit it its not much of a step up from cuddling that disease ridden bunny  
EB: I don't cuddle liv!  
TG: haha look how defensive you just got  
TG: you totally do you loser  
TG: and holy shit i forgot you named the thing liv fucking tyler  
TG: seriously dude  
TG: what the fuck  
EB: says the guy wearing the shades of the late great ben stiller!  
EB: seriously how old are those things even?  
TG: shut up theyre awesome  
EB: heheh.  
EB: you're obviously getting sentimental in your old age dave.  
TG: bro ive been wearing these since you gave them to me like seven years ago  
TG: this is nothing new  
EB: heheheh.  
TG: so yeah  
TG: whats up  
EB: oh, just planning a liv tyler movie marathon!  
TG: what  
TG: why  
EB: it's the hundred year anniversary of her death.  
EB: or something.  
EB: god rest her soul.  
TG: dork  
EB: shut up!  
EB: but yeah free time isn't for like two hours  
EB: so i'm killing some time talking to my best bro!  
TG: wait what  
TG: dude no one cares about free time anymore  
TG: did we like not just have this conversation last time you came over my house and almost had an aneurism about my lack of any batterwitch memorabilia  
TG: im unemployed and i dont have any imperial drones breaking down my door  
TG: just watch your shitty movies  
EB: what!!!  
EB: a productivity drone just flew by my window like ten minutes ago!!  
TG: dude no ones seen one of those in months  
TG: the batterwitch has other fish to fry  
TG: which btw is something we need to talk about asap  
EB: maybe it's because i'm in one of the low income districts?  
TG: dude youve been to my house  
TG: my place is in like the fucking epitome of low income districts  
TG: fuck  
TG: ok john  
TG: i didn't want to bring this up right now but obviously if youve got drones at your door it cant wait any longer  
TG: i need to crash with you for awhile  
EB: why is that such a big deal?  
EB: you crash with me all the time!  
TG: awhile meaning forever  
EB: what????????  
TG: ugh dont you dare go all spiderbitch on me i swear to fucking god  
EB: why????????  
EB: i mean  
EB: why?  
EB: :B  
TG: youre jut gonna have to trust me on this one bro ok  
TG: all will be revealed in time  
EB: when are you coming over?  
TG: .....  
TG: right now

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]  
EB: dave i only have one bed!!!!!!!!

You sigh dramatically and roll your chair back from your computer. Dave is such a weird guy. You wonder if he was serious about the 'forever' part and really can't bring yourself to be annoyed about it if he was. You like Dave. A lot. As your best friend. 

You swivel your chair around so that you have a good view of the window. It's large, one of the few good things about your apartment. You enjoy being able to look out at the sky every morning. It's sort of relaxing. The rain still hasn't let up and you spare a moment's concern for Dave. Hopefully he remembers to bring an umbrella. You don't think cyborgs are made out of steel but it sure would suck if he got stuck in a downpour.

Another drone rushes by and you jump. This one spares no time for snooping and simply rushes by, a brief flash of angry red. You have no idea what Dave was talking about when he said that the Empress didn't use those little guys anymore. Obviously she still did if they were always buzzing around your apartment complex like bees around a honeycomb.

A thought occurs to you and you wrinkle your nose, mulling over the last part of your and Dave's conversation. Maybe the drones were here and not anywhere else because you were special. Maybe there was some sort of prophecy and the Batterwitch knew about! Maybe she was monitoring you because you were the one destined to overthrow her! You allow yourself to get lost in your heroic vagaries for a solid minute or so before blinking yourself back to reality. No. It's best to not get carried away with those type of thoughts. Pride is discouraged. Treason is especially discouraged. Any combination of the two is bound to get you in a heap of trouble. 

However, you can't help think, as you gaze out at the crimson spires of the Empress's tower, that this can't be all life was to offer. A once-sparkling dystopia which claimed to embrace anarchy, yet embraced draconian rulesets and punishments was never meant to last. At least not in your movies. Yet it had, for more than a hundred years and was still going strong. No isolated act of heroism was going to change that and you had to force yourself to be okay with that, otherwise you'd go mad.

Deciding on caution, you decide to wait for your allotted Free Time before settling down to watch your movies. Movies, that, if you were caught with, you could very well be executed for. Propaganda of a better time. Owning them is your sole act of defiance against the Empress and one you do not undertake lightly. Everyone needs a little something to get them through the day. 

You've always felt as if you're meant for something special and somehow living in a Bad Future watching illegal contraband and reading the equally illegal files and books Dave was always sending you didn't seem like it could possibly be it. 

You spend the rest of the day keeping up the charade of productivity and trying not to think too much.

xxx

Dave arrives during your Liv Tyler movie marathon and you almost have a heart attack when you hear the knocks on the door. You mute the movie and rush to the door, grateful that the screen was facing away from the entrance to your apartment.

You throw open the door to find a sopping wet Dave standing in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. Your panic dissipates immediately and you catch him off guard with a hug. He stumbles back a little bit before begrudgingly returning your embrace, mumbling something incoherently.

"Jeez, down doggy." You grin broadly and let him go.

"Hey Dave! I'm so glad you're here! I'm right in the middle of my movie marathon but you can- hey, you're not wearing your shades."

He blinks at you, though it seems like more of a wink due to the fact that his right eye can't really move. It's strange, seeing his eyes this close. The left was a stark red, an abnormal color, yet still a fully functioning eye. The other, however, was rimmed with metal and the iris was comprised of a rotating lens.

"Yeah, I got a tune up last week and they kinda interfere with my vision now," he says, stepping into your apartment and looking around. "I wear them on top of my head now, see?" He taps the aviators nestled among his blond mat of hair, drawing your attention.

"Oh, good. I thought you had finally decided to get rid of them." You return to the couch and he follows as you plop down together.

“Ha, no way man. I'm keeping these babies forever. Lord of the Rings huh? Is she even in these movies? And since when did you get good taste?"

"Hahaha alright, Mr. Funny Guy. I have the best taste in movies and you know it. And of course she's in these, she's the sexy elf lady. I'm surprised you don't know that, being the big dweeb that you are."

"Dude, if anyone's a dweeb here, it's you. You're like the poster child for a dweeb."

"Shut up, numb nuts."

"Childish insults don't work on me, Egbert, This simply increase my douche bag power levels."

"And how high are the power levels?" You can't resist.

"Oh, I'd say they're . . . over nine thousand."

You both snort at that. Recycling awful, century-old memes was one of your favorite past times when you were kids. They're sort of like in-jokes now and you revel in any excuse to bring them out.

"We're both a little bit dweebs."

"Yeah."

You both settle back down to finish the trilogy in comfortable silence and you wonder if he was ever going to bring up the fact that he had basically invited himself to be your roommate for life and the reasons for it. He'll probably just slowly integrate himself into your life and one night just suddenly decide to tell you. Yeah, that seems like a Dave-type thing to do.

You can't help but notice that he's keeping his right hand tucked into his sweatshirt pocket and you sigh a little bit internally. You wish that he wouldn't be so ashamed of his mechanical parts. You think they're awesome! But he treats them as if they're some sort of curse and it hurts you to know how much he hates those parts of himself. The only evidence of his sub-human status at the moment are his eye and the clock noises coming from his chest.

The two of you finish the entire trilogy, and by the end you have tears in your eyes and Dave is just sort of patting your hand awkwardly, telling you not to be such a baby. You want to hug him because oh god this movie just gets to you every damn time you watch it but you think that'd be weird so you don't. Spontaneous, I'm-so-damn-happy-to-see-you hugs are acceptable, maudlin, tearful ones are not.

It's late, so you shut the television off and stash your tapes under a floorboard while Dave pokes fun at you for only ever watching films from before the early 21st century. You shoot back that that's pretty hypocritical coming from someone who only listens to music from before the year 2020.

The two of you decide that it's not late enough for you to eschew your traditional best bros jam session, so you play a piano version of 'Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots' and Dave provides the vocals. You wonder if living with him will mean that every night will be like this one, and that would be just fine with you because you think you are in love with his voice.

Despite insisting that he should take your bed ("Dave, you're my guest! I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor!") he ends up on the couch ("Are you kidding me, bro? No way I'm kicking you out of your own bed. I'd feel like I forced a puppy to sleep outside in the rain. I'll just sleep out here.")

Shaking your head, you shut off the light and retire to your bed. It's almost twelve as you roll under the covers, evidenced by the Betty Crocker brand alarm clock shining its red digits on your ceiling.

Midnight is a quiet hour, a time always set aside for your bouts of peaceful introspection. But not tonight, no, tonight your thoughts are occupied by the cyborg inside your house and the faint metronome of his imperfect mechanical heart you can hear through the thin walls. It's not a pacemaker, not a device that merely aids the body in a process it already has knowledge of. It is a supplanter, a replacement, an organic component given way to a better, robotic model. Long ago, they realized most parts of a human could easily be replaced. Most, except for the brain, and even that could be replicated, duplicated, stolen and crammed into an android's shell where it would become as perfect as the rest of his body.

You groan and press your face into your pillow. You have a feeling that it's going to be a long night.


	2. In Which John is Sneaky and Jake is Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some nice Johndave fluff and then some heartrending Dirkjake angst.

You pad around your apartment in what you like to think is a stealthy manner, socks making no noise when they connect with the tile. It's five in the morning, early by even your standards and practically ungodly by Dave's. He's still on the couch, snoring. The blanket you so kindly provided him with last night is covering his face and his mechanical arm is hanging over the edge. You allow yourself to stare at it for awhile, unused to having such an unobstructed view.

A thought creeps its way into your mind and, before you can shake it away entirely, you are creeping over to his side like the stealthy ninja you are. He shifts a little and you freeze, heart pounding away in your chest like a dying canary. The seconds crawl at the pace of a diabetic snail until you consider it safe to continue to your advance.

At last you reach the edge of the couch, crouching down so that you are at eye level with him. At least, you assume you are as his face is obstructed by the blanket. His arm is even more fascinating up close, all thick silver tubes and delicate lattices of wires. A lot of craftsmanship went into this and you can't help but marvel at it.

You scrape up your courage and reach your hand towards his, slipping your organic limb into his metal one, reveling in the way your fingers slide in between cold metal. God, his hand is a work of art. It doesn't even clack when you move your extremities, just folds like a snap up telescope around your flesh.

You frown a little to yourself as the oddness of what you're doing creeps up on you. You've already fallen for his voice and his mechanical parts, why not go the whole nine yards and love his organics too?

It's almost a nice thought, and you squeeze his hand unconsciously while a stupid smile spreads over your stupid, orthodontically challenged face. A sudden snore erupts from under the blanket, startling you. Quickly, you release his hand and stumble back. He murmurs in his sleep and turns over. You allow a relieved sigh to escape your lips, wondering how exactly you would explain that awkward situation to him.

"Well, you look pretty while you sleep so I decided to hold your hand. Haha, no homo." Somehow a conversation that you aim to avoid.

Silently, you resume doing what you originally set out to do: make Dave a real breakfast. Even though you know it's stupid, you are suddenly glad of the rain, as it masks the sound of your heart, which seems absolutely deafening to you at the moment.

 

xxx

 

"Your apartment smells really nice."

You look up from your scrambled eggs, eyebrows raised questioningly. It's the first thing Dave's said all morning that wasn't incoherent murmuring and you still don't understand it.

He gestures vaguely with his fork. "Your apartment smells like lilac air freshener and buttercups. Mine smells like smoke and bad dreams." He sticks a sausage in his mouth.  
You've never really paid much attention to the way your apartment smelled, but you immediately latch on to the second part of what he said.  
"Smoke and bad dreams? Last time I was there, it smelled like the dead body you keep under the floorboards and that was it."

Dave swallows the sausage in the least suggestive way possible and you make a face. "Yeah, well I haven't been exactly sleeping well lately."

"And why is that?" You try to sound conversational and take a swig of orange juice immediately after to reenforce the effect. It tastes sour and you immediately regret downing the whole glass. Then something else occurs to you and you look up at Dave with alarm, the facade of uncaring completely gone.

"Dave, do you smoke now?!"

He pauses, closes his mouth, and then opens it again, looking slightly uncomfortable. Your stomach does an acrobatic fucking pirouette off a tree stump.

"Well, no, not exactly . . ."

"Dave . . ." Your voice is laced with warning and he looks like he wants to disappear. Your stare does not waver, and instead morphs into a disconcerting oogle. He looks as if he's about to break out into a cold sweat.

At last he heaves a heavy sigh. "Rose stayed with me for a few weeks. She's . . . picked up some nasty habits."

"Rose? Rose was . . . here? In the city? Why didn't you tell me?" You can't help but feel slightly hurt. Rose was your friend too, god damit. Dave didn't have exclusive sibling privileges. If Jade ever came back, you would gladly share her with Dave.

"I'm sorry, John." He sounds so genuine and you're instantly worried again. Ever since he arrived, his cool kid mask has seemed nonexistent. It was worrying for a guy who practically lived off of sarcasm. "She told me not to tell you."

You lean backwards and massage the bridge of your nose. "I haven't seen her in . . . what, a year? The least she could have done was drop in on me."

"Yeah . . ." Dave's expression is far away and sad and you want to take his hand again, but that would be stupid and preposterous so you murder the idea entirely. "Rose hasn't been doing too well lately, I hate to break it to you. She's been a mess of practically Roxy-like proportions, who, coincidentally, hasn't sent me a single fucking letter since she left. But that's beside the point. Something happened to, Rose. The same thing that . . . Goddammit, John, actually, I don't want to have this conversation over breakfast. Too fuckin' domestic." He presses his eyes into the palms of his hands and groans audibly before looking up at you with his brilliant red and grey irises. The lens of his right eye focuses in on you and he takes a deep shuddering breath. "Shit is so fuckin' bad right now, John, and you probably don't even know. My entire fucking family is missing, John. So's yours but at least Jake and Jade send you letters semi-regularly."

You don't have any words for him, but the traitorous idea resurrects itself, rising quickly from its own ashes like a phoenix before you have a chance to combat its sheer stupidity and before you know it you're taking his robotic hand in yours. He looks at you in surprise before relaxing slightly before folding his digits over yours. His grip is surprisingly tight, almost as if he's using you as a lifeline.

"Fuck, John, let's just watch a movie, okay? Then I'll tell you why I'm here, alright?"

You nod wordlessly, pushing thoughts of productivity drones far away. Dave could always split the cost of whatever fee you might acquire.

"Okay, Dave. Cage or Mcconaughey?"

"Urgghh."

 

xxx

 

Your name is Jake English and you are cursed with recurring nightmares.

In your dreams, it's always the same. One scene, repeated endlessly, over and over and over again with subtle variations. You no longer enjoy dreaming, as you always know what's to come.

You're reaching for him, screaming his name over and over again and he reaches back with the arm not trapped by strong metallic limbs. Your fingers brush for the fraction of a second and then he's gone, swept up into the belly of the machine, leaving only a pair of pointy shades clattering on the ground.

The dream changes at this point, but it's always too late. Nonsense infects your illusions, but you never pay much attention to it. All you can bring yourself to do is to stare at the shades on the ground in mute horror.

You wonder if you will spend the rest of your life like this, alone, trawling through city streets in the search of someone who might as well be dead. The world is a harsher place without him and you often long for home. You haven't written to either John or Jane is so very long. But, as much good as it would do you, you can't turn back now. It's far to late for that. Besides, you only know the permanent residence of is John and the thought of dragging him into this whole mess makes your stomach turn. And if you found John, Dave would certainly be there too, demanding to know how you could have been so careless as to have lost his brother. You can't face that yet.

Even as you grip your pistols, you know you are a coward, especially without Dirk there. For years, the two of you had always been a team. Dirk and Jake, the dynamic duo who were supposed to be some of the heroes of the revolution. You snort mournfully at that. Some hero you turned out to be.

You really miss your boyfriend.

You know he's not dead. He can't be. Hundreds of sleepless nights have lent you the time to work out the fact that the Batterwitch would not have killed him. The drones kill revolutionaries on sight. They do not capture them and they most certainly do not leave their companions alive. Dirk must have been important to them somehow.

So you will never stop searching for him until you see his head impaled on one of the spikes outside the Batterwitch's palace. He would most certainly do the same for you.

Besides, you have a lead! Karkat had received a tip about experiments being conducted in the abandoned warehouse district and had most graciously passed it on to you. The thought makes your heart stir faintly out of excitement as you slink through back alleys, clutching your weapons tightly. This is what it meant to be a top notch adventurer. This very situation has played out hundreds of times in your movies. The hero, the brave, kick-ass hero with absolutely no qualms about facing his missing boyfriend's little brother, would sneak into the enemy's secret hideout, go absolutely berserk on the bad guys and rescue the damsel in distress. Happy endings for all.

As you reach the edge of the warehouse different, your fantasy recedes, instead replaced with iron resolve. You grip your firearms tightly and prepare to indulge yourself with a quote from one of your all-time favorite movies.

"I am here for two things: to fucking ruin someone's shit and play a friendly game of make-believe.

"And I'm all out of imagination!"

You resist the urge to let out a battle cry as you race in to the graveyard of shadowy buildings.

 

xxx

 

Dave's face is buried in your arm and you can't even find it in yourself to be mad at him for missing the best part of Contact. He just looks so exhausted and defeated. Maybe he'll fall asleep before he even tells you why he's here. You could allow that. The waiting would kill you inside, but you'd allow it.

"I'm sorry, man, I'm fuckin' on death's door with a bouquet of flowers to take his daughter on a prom date," he mumbles into your arm, trailing off towards the end. If he wasn't so tired, you're sure you would have been treated to one of his more colorful extended metaphors. You accept his apology silently by way of wrapping your arm around him. He murmurs his thanks into your sleeve. "Fuuuuuck."

It's hard to enjoy the last bit of the movie in such an intimate position, but somehow you manage it. You can't tell if Dave is asleep or not, but you try to remain perfectly still in case he is. He looks like he could really use some sleep.

You are suddenly reminded of the fact that the rain machines have yet to be fixed, or at least disengaged, by a droplet of water hitting your nose and sliding down your face. You groan softly and try to finish the movie, fully aware that by the time Dave awakes, your head will be completely drenched.

 

xxx

 

Dave shifts a bit in your arms just as the credits are tailing off. Your hair is soaked and, naturally, as he rears his head, that is the first thing he notices. He looks up at the wet patch on the ceiling, then quirks an eyebrow at you. "Why didn't you . . ."

You push him off of you wordlessly and scoot out of range of droplets. He snorts in reply, mouth twitching slightly. Before he can make it into a full blown smirk, you open your mouth.

"So, Dave, I think it's about time you told me why you're here."

He sighs dramatically and flops down again. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"No, some people have jobs they have to return to on Monday."

"Fuck." He straightens up again. "John, you might not want to got to work tomorrow."

You look at him in mild alarm. "What? Why not? Productivity drones will be breaking down my door if I don't-"

He lays a cold metal finger against your lips, a surprisingly intimate gesture that causes you to trail off suddenly. "Just shut up about those, okay? Those are basically the least of your problems right now. As problems go, they are pretty fucking far down the echeladder. I mean, not at the bottom, because forgetting to get your mail before the Post Office closes probably isn't bad as getting a fine but still-"

Now it's your turn to quiet him. "You're rambling again, dude." You rub his back gently, enjoying this closeness. He arches up slightly, like a gigantic cat, and lets out a soft moan.

"Whatever, man. You get my drift. The point is . . . the point is that I'm exhausted because I haven't slept in fucking days because I've been so worried about you and you're just . . . here and I've gotta . . . gotta tell you . . ." He yawns before forging ahead. "I've gotta tell you some shit and then we're getting so drunk and then we're gonna sleep or I'm gonna sleep or whatever and then I don't know."

You don't really know how to respond to any of them, so you choose to hold your tongue.  
He takes your silence as an invitation to begin his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can look forward to Sollux next chapter, along with HIC  
> Thanks for reading!  
> (Also cookies for anyone to catch the Problem Sleuth reference)


End file.
